


Corruption of Innocence

by SophieGraceJ



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Daddy Kink, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Loss of Virginity, Reader-Insert, Smut, Virginity Kink, i don't even know what i've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 05:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17380154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieGraceJ/pseuds/SophieGraceJ
Summary: “My dear, why do you cry? I am immortalising your pain, like a fly in amber, I am paying tribute to your suffering, to your life and death. You shall be remembered for eternity, you are a masterpiece.”You were trapped with a psycho, you were trapped in hell for an eternity, a fly in amber. That’s what you were, you collapsed into the wall. “No, no, no, no. Please. Please.” Voice heavy and wavering, you pleaded to everything and nothing at once.Then a flash, a click. A high-pitched gasp from deep within your throat, you stood up straighter, turning to the source of it. Nothing. But there was something different, the hallway had shortened, no longer was the door you came through there.





	Corruption of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!   
> I'm completely new to the fandom and a new stan of Stefano Valentini!! I don't know why, but I have a thing for basically any fictional character who is a psychopath, participates in psychopathic behaviors or literally just does horrific things. Yep, that's that and I decided to write a reader fic. I've never actually written anything like this before (dark, gruesome), and you'll probably notice the smut isn't that great, I don't write smut often, I've only written fully-fleshed out smut once, I'm just not good at it, sorry XD   
> Nonetheless, thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoy!

The Grand theatre. Somehow you had managed to flee from the Residential area, from your home in this town to the business district. There was no choice, the whole place was deteriorating, the sky in a constant darkness, the night never leaving for sunshine. Your parent’s dead, massacred by the people you used to see happy and following day-to-day life like back in the real world. It had all gone to shit, and the fear and terror within churned beside a rage. Seething and attached to the image of your parents, they were the ones who brought you to here. Your Father a participant in the creation of this STEM world, grasping at the opportunity to be apart of it more physically as well. The anger, it got you through the worst of it out in the streets, stumbling and hearing nothing but distant screams, a dissonance of wails and flesh being torn into by the hands of the insane. Chasing after you. 

Sweat, blood and tears. Death didn’t seem like the worse outcome, the hope in you conjured an image of your parents waking alive and well in reality, unharmed and ready to get you of this hell. But it never happened. 

Slamming into the entrance of the theatre, you pushed popcorn stands toward it, barricading yourself from the chaos outside, the agony and horror. You wish you could help anyone out there alive, but you weren’t strong enough. 

Red. A gag, a flex in your stomach and you had to palm your mouth shut. The crimson of the carpet, of the walls and curtains reminiscent of the blood splatters, the stains, the smell of it. Death everywhere. Sobbing, choking on them as you walked the foyer, looking for anything that could aid you. Med kit. 

Most important was a med kid. 

Struggling was an understatement as you tried not to look down at your legs and lower abdomen, the open wounds and lacerations. You had fallen over during the first wave of chaos, house collapsing in on itself. Landed on debris, sharpened wood and steel, bits of glass embedded into you like weeds in the lawn. The root of the external objects deep in your flesh, some shards still remaining inside you. 

Front desk, nothing. Storage room, locked. Bathroom, just dead bodies and gore… 

“Help! Somebody help me!” 

Guttural, deep from the throat, a woman screaming out from upstairs, in the auditorium maybe. The sounds of struggle and desperation seemed to numb the pain. You weren’t alone. Help her. 

Ripping out a long steel bar from some of the destroyed infrastructure of the theatre, you sprinted to the stair case, legs wonky and restless but strong enough to get you up higher, to where her screams bounced from wall to wall. “I’m coming, I’m gonna help you okay!” 

The response was nothing but continued screeching and wails. You had to hurry. You had to get to her. Tears exploited, desecrated your vision, blurry and unfocused but it didn’t pause you. Trembling and swaying from side to side as you ran a lithe hallway. Ramming into walls, fatigue finally catching up to you, loss of blood … You had to focus on the woman, not yourself. 

“My dear, why do you cry? I am immortalising your pain, like a fly in amber, I am paying tribute to your suffering, to your life and death. You shall be remembered for eternity, you are a masterpiece.” 

Your strides came to a slow, the voice of a man only just flexing out to your ears. Her wails intensified, gurgling of something, as if she were drowning. A violent shriek and a large object falling with a thud, your heart stopped. Her cries no longer audible, just music, classical music playing sweetly as if nothing had happened at all. Steel rod tightened in your grip, dirtied knuckles growing white from the pressure. 

“Beautiful. One of my best, this shall receive such praise. The way your eyes stare so distantly, so vacant of feeling. So numb.” Clicks, sharp and fast, the sound of a camera snapping pictures. You followed the sound, to find it coming from one of the locked doors. The common sense in you prevented you from knocking on it, from calling out to the man. And that’s when you noticed the portraits, the framed photographs on the walls. 

Familiar. Death and decay, blood and gore, massacre and torture. But a strange beauty, an elegance to the way the images of violence were composed. Crimson, roses and thorns, limbs separated from bodies but not clear enough to differentiate what was real and what wasn’t. It couldn’t be real …

You sobbed, a realisation of the truth. 

You were trapped with a psycho, you were trapped in hell for an eternity, a fly in amber. That’s what you were, you collapsed into the wall. “No, no, no, no. Please. Please.” Voice heavy and wavering, you pleaded to everything and nothing at once. 

Then a flash, a click. A high-pitched gasp from deep within your throat, you stood up straighter, turning to the source of it. Nothing. But there was something different, the hallway had shortened, no longer was the door you came through there. 

“My art is an acquired taste, uncomprehensive to those who are ignorant to the beauty of such a side of life. To the unnatural, to the disfigured face of death. You have to open your mind to the possibilities!” 

His lilt was delicate, sensual and pleasant no matter how hard you tried to shut it out, you shook your head, latching your hands to your ears. “Shut up … Shut up.” 

A creak of a door, and you were entranced. Losing grip of the metal rod, you flickered your watery gaze to the opened door, the one leading to where the screams had echoed from. “Please, art is not art without an audience.” 

It wasn’t curiosity that led you walk through that door, it was the despair, the lack of care for your own life anymore. The apathy towards yourself, the desperation for it all to go away, a numbness. 

Pitch dark, impossible to see anything, the door behind you shut and locked. You wandered aimlessly, staggering closer to the scent of rotting, of flowers blossoming and flowers dying. A strange concoction of life and death. 

Tchaikovsky. You recognised the sound of him, the composition of strings so fae-like, so feathered and fantastical. The shutter of lights, the explosion of brightness and sudden vision. It blinded you for a moment, pinching your eyes shut. Fingers rubbed into your lids, soothing away the ache. 

You wanted to stay in the dark, but a presence so sinister had your apathy soon replaced by terror and extreme adrenaline, the desire to live. 

“Magnificent, don’t you agree? Her final goodbye, the disappearance of fight in her, the loss of hope and life. Hollowed out, just a vessel painted in flesh and blood. I’m afraid I might not ever top this…” 

Silence. That was the only response you had to the monstrosity in front of you. You stumbled to your knees, a thud of agonising shivers spreading up and up your body, your own blood seeping into the ground along with hers. The pain was too much, the sight of her deformed body too much. But you had to look. The horrific nature of her so shocking, it took your breath away. It was hard to know if it was beauty or disturbance you found in the way her naked body hovered just above the ground, stomach wide open and insides below her feet. Empty inside. Vacant of life. Soul gone. 

“I know, I know. It takes my breath away too. The perfectly carved symbolism of spirituality and physicality, her soul the organs inside her shell. Gone, all gone. Death knows no boundaries.” 

He was standing beside you, the scent of him, his cologne, the expensiveness of him, the richness of his aura, the ego of him. So overpowering, it almost tasted good. Too good. Shifting your gaze from the splattered gore right before you, to dress shoes perhaps worth more than your actual existence. 

All you could stare at were his shoes, not a stain of his horrific deeds. So clean and put together, they weren’t the shoes of a killer. Not the shoes of a monster, monsters didn’t wear beautiful clothes, but maybe he was the exception. 

“I shall call this piece, Tristitia. Fits doesn’t it? Her despondency, her hopelessness. Or is it too much? Perhaps I’m getting too spiritual? I’ve always put my efforts into steering clear of religion, too sappy for my taste, what do you think?” 

“I think … I think it’s …” you couldn’t finish your sentence, his gaze was upon you, you could feel the narcissism, the desire to be praised, to be worshipped, the impatience for an answer. Your body warmed at his striking attention. 

“It’s what my dear? Please, speak your mind. Feedback is crucial to my art and its process.” 

You stared daggers into the floor, hoping he would just leave, or get it over and done with, kill you. That’s what the sensation of his glare was, you could feel the tension, the rising anger, the rage in him. A hum, he sighed and knelt down, the light touch of his knee to the ground had you looking away. You couldn’t bare to look at whoever this monster was. Disgust and despair hindering your ability to keep in line, to keep yourself from being impulsive. 

“Don’t get me wrong, silence is appreciated, but only when I am creating my art, not when I am presenting it-”

“You make me sick …” 

It was too soft, too quiet for him to have heard, or so you hoped so, it just slipped out and straight after a sob followed, but he didn’t seem to hear, or perhaps he didn’t care. 

“What did you say? If you wish to be heard, speak louder!” 

You let out another cry, the sudden raise in his voice right by your face had you crawling away from him, and finally surrendering your gaze to him and his entire form. The cries died in your throat, as your eyes followed the shape of his lithe, tall body, his attire and then his eyes- no eye… 

Art. A painting of a man, so delicate, so beautiful and striking. Black hair, modern and something you rarely saw on the people you knew, the people you had lost. You had never seen anything like him, not in reality or here. A specimen of ego and allure. His beauty had you trembling, and his stare had your heart racing. 

He was no longer kneeling, but stood tall and pretentious, that of a cliché artist, however you didn’t know if he was worthy of such pride and vanity. You didn’t know what to think. The way his eye examined every part of you, you could practically feel it as if it were the touch of his gloved hands gliding down every detail, every curve and edge of you. Pink lips smoothing into a wicked smile, there was something wicked about him. Even if you didn’t know what you knew now. If you had seen him across the street, you would have lost all sense of self, been in a trance of fear and confusion. 

A man you would fantasise about, older and wiser, trained in the art of seduction. So fluid and unphased by life. His matureness with just a touch of youth. The thought of a man like him looking at you like he was now, it corrupted your mind, it awakened a part of yourself that scared you. 

“How wrong was I think to think I would never find another muse like her…” He circled you, voice breathless, wavering and uneven, confident but losing any form of stableness it had previously. 

You remain still, aware of the way his eye seemed to dig deeper into you, seemed to penetrate every bit of you. “Look at you, so vulnerable, so open to my vision. I can see all of you, the insecurities, the secrets, the fears and the desires… The doe eyes, the tears, oh I don’t think I’ll ever find anything more exciting than you.” 

Flashes and clicks. You are his source of inspiration, snapping and immortalising the image of you sitting upright on crimson ground, blood seeping from your stomach down to your ankles, jeans ripped and showing skin, you felt naked under his lens. “The masterpiece I could make of you, there’s no time to waste.” His camera clasped hand fell to his side, lips stretched into a smile so sinister, so malice but eager, empty blue gaze following your pained shock. 

“No…No, please, don’t do this!” You were crying out, you really were an open book, bleeding out on the ground like an animal. You were going to end up just like her. Why did your parents have to leave you? To leave you to die so horribly? 

His laugh was husky, guttural and pleased as you cried into the air just as he took one last picture, the flashing light being the final thing you saw before falling into darkness.

~ 

You awoke to a numbness, there was nothing. No pain, not from the wounds, not from the headache, not from your swollen eyes or scratched throat. There was almost a sensation of lightness, of giddiness, of waking up after a peaceful sleep. There was nothing peaceful about the view however. 

The setup of a photoshoot, lighting equipment, deep red curtains surrounding the scene of an artist’s workshop. The smell artificial, synthetic, off-white, medical and like a hospital. False security, false comfort. You were almost too afraid to look down, to where there was once immense agony, perhaps it had all been a dream, maybe it was still a dream. 

No. 

You screamed. Worthy of a horror film, from deep within, spit and saliva splattering everywhere, mouth open wide, jaw clicking, the scream withering into a dying sob, voice dead and fading away. But you screamed more. 

You could barely understand yourself, what you were trying to convey with shattered screams. Straining any energy you had left. 

“Hush my dear muse, you look beautiful. You should be pleased with yourself, I couldn’t have performed without you.” 

“Please … stop it, stop this, I wanna go home. I want my mom...” You sobbed, teeth clattering together as the sobs gripped your entire being, “I want my parents.” The leather of a glove smoothed over the inside of your thigh, your naked skin, soft and gentle but far from the comfort you wanted. It went higher and higher, near your – no, no. 

“Have you ever been with a man?” 

“I wanna go home… I want my parents… Let me go…” You had lost any power you had to scream, just whispers and murmurs falling from your lips, watching him intently, watching the way his eye raked over your naked body, until it reached your lips that spoke dissonant pleads. 

“So innocent, never been touched by man or woman.” His words broke near the end, swallowed back down his throat, a choke of breath and his glove was being peeled away, his skin tracing the wounds he fitted with roses, flowers were blossoming from inside you. 

You quieted down, finding it more comforting to not think, but to listen to just his voice, to breathe slow and to shiver whenever his fingers touched sensitive skin, like just below your breasts, your hipbone, your ribs. 

“Corruption of innocence … That’s what I will call this piece, but there’s something, something missing.” 

The joy eliciting from his voice thick with foreignness and lust caused you to fidget and wriggle around in what you soon realised was a bed of rose petals. Like a worm, you couldn’t lay still as his camera clicked and flashed, finally gaining some movement back, he must have given you something as you slept. Your wounds were starting to hurt again, even worse with the roses and their stems woven within, like an ancient building overgrown with nature. Like the weeds back home in your lawn. 

“Daddy …” You had croaked out without meaning to, there was nothing sensual meant from it as you had let it out, it was only a prayer for your Father to save you, but you soon realised your mistake. The camera had stopped then. 

A silence, and tension. You had done something terribly wrong. 

“Say that again.” He demanded, not asked, thick with superiority and ego, as if he wouldn’t take no for an answer, which was most likely the case. You had no choice. 

“Da-daddy.” 

“Again.” 

“Daddy.” 

“Quieter, don’t speak it, whisper it.” 

And so you did. How this would help with his photoshoot, you didn’t know, and it seemed getting a photo was the last thing on his mind, for the camera was gone, and he just stood watching you from the edge of the mattress. 

“You’re a better actress than this, say it like you mean it. Beg it, cry it with your soft voice, little mouse. Shy and innocent, whisper it, where is he? Why hasn’t he saved you?”

“Daddy? Where are you? I need you … please.” You hadn’t thought it would have this effect but it did, you felt disgusting, practically moaning the words out, something that was supposed to be innocent, now something vulgar. 

“Hush. I have an idea.” 

Your mind stuttered, froze for a moment, lips quivering and hands shaking, remaining still and calm were the least of your priorities now. You found him in the same spot, only difference now was he looked dishevelled, in trance, eye distant as it considered you, a single finger to his lips as gesture to be silent. 

Panic seemed to rise in you, as the tension strengthened and you could barely breathe. And then, breathing was a far-off thought in your head. The mattress dipped as he placed his knee into it, a smile sadistic and malice unveiling itself as he pulled down your ankles, rose petals disturbed and some falling off the bed, some stuck in your hair and others stuck to the sweat on your back. 

Shame, guilt as you lay still, something in you dark and changing, something in you releasing a moan as he spread your ankles further from each other, blue eye focused on one thing and one thing only. Between your legs.

Time had become an abstract thing, more than in reality, you hadn’t even noticed him unzipping his trousers, crawling between your legs, disorganised words coming out of his mouth, words in his language, Italian you noted. All you could see was him, blue eye staring into you as he thrusted in, a guttural groan falling from your mouth, the pain although intense, was unique to any other pain, almost pleasurable …

A stern hand by your hip, perhaps lower, desperately grasping at your flesh, the other hand pressing into the mattress just beside your head as he continued to thrust in and out, mostly silent, his eye drifting down to where your bodies met. 

“Sa-say it.” 

You didn’t have to ask what the moaned question meant. 

“Daddy.” 

More precise, more focused, silence was being diminished, destroyed by your tiny gasps and his drawled-out groans. Rose petals jumping up and down as the whole room seemed to move, to shake, but no, it was just the bed as he pounded into you. Roses in his hair, he sank his teeth into the crook of your neck, lips soft and cold. Tongue wet with your blood, climbing up your neck, to your jawline, to your chin then to your lips. 

Clenching around him, he pulsed, a beating heart inside you, constantly pulsing and moving down where your bodies became one, where he fucked you. If this was to be your last moment alive … no, this was the last moment of your life, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

He fucked and fucked you, until he couldn’t without falling apart, without releasing himself onto the roses embedded into your stomach. And as the cut of your throat occurred with spurts of blood, your moans choking on the crimson liquid, the camera flashing and clicking, you saw the image of a portrait, hanging on one of the theatre walls, like fly in amber, your death and your pleasure would be captured forever … 

You were his masterpiece. 

The corruption of innocence.


End file.
